


your fall was not an accident, you were chosen for the damned

by lil_lite_inthedark



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Suicide Attempt, TW; Drowning, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), no beta we die like wilbur in skyblock, tw: character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29619132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_lite_inthedark/pseuds/lil_lite_inthedark
Summary: Tommy's got wings here, and I make a bunch of Greek Myth parallels. DreamSMP, but a Greek tragedy.orTheseus, Thomas, Tommy, Achilles, and Icarus are one in the same.
Relationships: None, Shippers back off or i will burn your left shoes, no shipping!! - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 88





	your fall was not an accident, you were chosen for the damned

**Author's Note:**

> first ever fic and i cannot spell, i apologize in advance. shippers go away there is no shipping here. its kinda long, whoops.

Tommyinnit was not always Tommyinnit. When he was first brought into this cold and cruel world, he was simply Theseus. Lonely and oh so cold, yet he was alive. Alive, and untouched by such an unforgiving world.  _ It would not last.  _ Theseus was born with wings.  Feathered wings, small for now. Starting black and fading into white, then ending again in black. 

_ Innocence.  _

Hard to find in a world such as this. He wanders, for years on end. Never staying in one place, he is nothing but a ghost in the wind, a myth, a legend even. Towns tell stories around a fire, and whisper about the little boy with the wings of a  _ mockingbird.  _

_ Innocence.  _

The wind howled that night, louder than Theseus had ever heard. The rain assaulted the forest, as if the heavens were crying, having experienced a pain, sadness even, worse than death. Birds were thrown about from the shear force of the wind, branches snapped in half as the storm raged on. And in the middle of it all, 

A boy. 

Small, and curled in on himself, wings wrapped tightly around him. Wings too wet to fly,  _ too small to ever fly,  _ he is trapped in the eye of the storm. Alone, and oh so cold. He knows he should move, get up, and try to find shelter. But try as he might,  _ he can’t.  _ The fear he feels, it doesn’t just grip him, it encompasses him, becomes his entire being. 

In that moment, Theseus became fear itself. 

A branch snaps. Then another, and another, the snapping becoming louder, as he realized, someone else is in the woods. He was alone, until the wet, muddy footsteps he heard finally reached him. He manages to pry his eyes open, just a sliver, and through his blurred vision he sees,  _ a man? Who in their right mind would be out in this storm? _ He realizes, in a moment of clarity, that this isn’t just a man. 

But one with  _ wings.  _

The man’s wings were much bigger than his, yet similar in color. Blacker than night, with faint white coloring in the midsection. Vaguely, he recalled seeing a bird with wings just like the man’s. 

_ A cardinal.  _

He wasn’t sure what he expected from the man,  _ he expected him to leave, if he was being honest,  _ but it definitely wasn’t what he saw when he met the man’s verdant eyes. Green, like the leaves of the trees currently battling above him. And most of all, kind, soft and  _ worried.  _

On that night, Theseus became Thomas Watson. 

As the years pass, Theseus,  _ Thomas,  _ he reminds himself, finds himself realizing many things. For once, he isn’t so cold, and lonely. He is warm, and surrounded by many,  _ family.  _ He doesn’t wander, and for once manages to stay in one god damn place.  _ Home.  _

He is loved. 

The world didn’t seem so cold anymore.  _ He would soon be reminded, just how cruel this world is.  _

Thomas is 14 now, a grown man if he did say so himself.  _ Just a boy.  _ His laughter is infectious, and he is  _ loud.  _ His mere presence lights up a room. A far cry from what he was all those years ago in the forest. He is loud, but only to make up for the years of silence. He is always with someone, never alone. He’s spent far too many years alone. The boy is different now, he has changed. Yet, his wings stay the same, never changing. A brilliant black, before fading to white, then black again.  _ Still too small to fly.  _ Still a mockingbird. 

_ Still innocent, untouched by the world.  _

Thomas had changed, and so had the cardinal,  _ Phil.  _ The man had been kind, a persistent figure in his life. When he was feverish, on the verge of death, and refusing help, the man had stayed. He had brought him into his home and cared for him. Brought him into his family, with his two sons and  _ kept him.  _ Sure, he left home a lot, for long periods of time. Sure, he could never be sure that Phil would come back, that he would be ok, but Phil  _ always  _ came back. The four of them were family, and he could trust that Phil would always come back. They were family,  _ and family always came back.  _

When Thomas was 15, Phil left for an escapade to the nether. Something about blazes and soul sand. He couldn’t remember now. 

_ All he remembered was that Phil never came back.  _

When Techno had returned from the nether, alone, refusing to speak about what had happened or  _ where Phil was,  _ he refused to believe the worst. Phil was probably just caught up with something, right? He would come back.  _ He wouldn’t leave.  _ But then 2 days passed, then four, and then a week. Phil still hadn’t returned. He wasn’t stupid, and he could put the pieces together. 

First there was one, lonely and afraid. Then there were four, and he had a family, he was happy. 

Then there were three. 

On that day, it rained. Storms were rare where they lived, a light drizzle, sure. But a storm so bad that it was pouring rain? Almost never. It sure matched his mood. 

In the dead of night, 15 year old Thomas Watson walked into the woods.  _ Everything was fine.  _ He simply wanted to take a late night stroll. Was doing this in a storm smart? Probably not, but he quite enjoyed the feeling of wind in his feathers.  _ It reminded him of Phil, and how he used to carry him up into the sky, since his own wings were too weak to carry him. Too small. Useless fucking wings, just like hi-  _ Thunder shook the sky. Yet he persisted, walking further into the woods. The deeper he got, the thicker the mud got, staining his white sneakers.  _ A present from Phil.  _ There he was, in the thick of the forest in the middle of a storm. The very same forest Phil had found him in. 

Alone. 

Same forest, same storm, same wings, same boy.  _ His wings,  _ after all this time they were the same, black fading to white. After all this time, all this pain, he still had  _ innocence.  _ An unchanging factor in his life. At least that wouldn’t leave him too. _ He hoped.  _

In this moment, he breaks. Because Phil is dead, he knows it. He’s gone, he’s not coming back home. The man who took him in, who saved him from death, loved him like his own,  _ was gone.  _

He falls to his knees, alone, with no one to hear. 

Did you ever really fall if there’s no one to hear? Did you ever really make a sound, if there’s no one to hear? Did you ever really exist, 

If there’s no one to remember you? 

He screams. 

Louder than the wind of the storm, louder than the booming claps of thunder, he screams 

But there is no one to hear. 

He screams until his throat is raw, until the tears mix with blood pouring from his throat. He screams until the pain he feels inside is evident on the outside. In this moment, he understands the pain that the heavens felt that fateful night, and he screams, louder than any storm the gods could conjure. 

He vows to never forget Phil, no matter how many years pass, how many people he meets, 

_ He existed, and Thomas could never forget it.  _

And when he wakes up the next morning in the woods, it is not green eyes he meets, but brown, like the oak surrounding him. He doesn’t like to remember the last time he saw those eyes, dark and crazed. 

Thomas Watson is 16, and he has a country. Well, his brother has a country.  _ L’manburg,  _ Wilbur had called it. Wilbur, calm and quick witted, and silver-tongued. The opposite of him really. Tommy is brash, head-strong and rambunctious. But, his friends and brothers love him all the same.  _ Don’t they? _

All is calm for the first few months after the country’s creation. That is, until Dream, and his crew of crusaders George and Sapnap, decide that they want L’manburg. Wilbur and him gather up the citizens of L’manburg and give a speech. One of bravery and determination, aureate with flowery words that win over every citizen.  _ Almost everyone.  _ In this moment, surrounded by friends, people who believe in him, people willing to fight alongside him, people who love him,  _ who won’t leave him,  _

Thomas Watson became Tommyinnit. 

Tommy isn’t very different from Thomas. Thomas does every action in memory of  _ him.  _ He sits outside when it’s windy, to be reminded of soaring in the clouds with…. Thomas doesn’t curse, he never liked that. Thomas doesn’t go around committing  _ minor crimes _ or playing pranks, even though he so badly wants to, because he was always disappointed. When Thomas does something, he does it with the hope that it’ll be good enough for  _ him.  _ Tommy doesn’t do those things. Not anymore. He never forgets  _ him _ , he could never. But Tommy is  _ Tommy, _ nothing more nothing less. Tommy lives for himself. 

When a blade pierced his brother’s chest, leaving him bloody and those soft brown eyes, ones that had cared for him when everything got too much,  _ empty,  _ Thomas would have screamed. 

Tommy ran.

He runs as far as legs can take him, and then still runs. Someone calls his name, but he’s fast,  _ faster than a normal person _ he remembers  _ Phil  _ telling him. The rocks from the crater that was once a country fly under his boots, which such force that it dents the bark of the trees nearby. The rough rock and shrapnel cut into the thick leather of his boots as he ran,  _ the boots Wilbur gave him.  _ He trips on a particularly sharp piece of rock, getting a facefull of dirt. His leg lets out a sickening crack, and Tommyinnit is trapped in a crater. He screams, weak and desperate, any anger or frustration to be felt squashed by the horror from the scene that had occurred just minutes ago. 

He pounds a fist into the ground, a futile attempt to stop the hot tears gathering in his eyes from falling. His throat is tight, a lump of emotions caught inside.  _ He won’t cry. Wilbur doesn’t like to see him cry.  _ Didn’t like to. 

Didn’t. 

His wings scrape against the rough ground, ripping off a few feathers. Not that it mattered. His god forsaken wings,  _ a gift, Phil had told him.  _ More like a curse. He couldn’t have even gotten nice wings, like a cardinal, he had to get  _ mockingbird  _ wings. Cardinal wings like Phil’s. 

Wait. 

Phil. 

Who’s hand was it that gripped the sword that plunged into his brother’s chest, who’s wings did he see, that took his brother’s last life? The face he’d frozen at, when he’d gotten to really look at it, the eyes he stared into as he watched the life leave his brother for the last time- 

They were green. 

Green like- 

No. Phil, he was- he was dead? That’s why he never came back, right? Phil was his family, he took him in- he, and  _ oh who was he kidding _ ? Phil was his father. He wouldn’t just  _ leave. He promised.  _

_ Family didn’t leave, right?  _

What was it that  _ person  _ had said? 

“You’re my son!” 

The cold realization clawed its way into his heart and shattered him. 

His father was alive. 

He killed Wilbur. 

_ He left him.  _

Another thought, colder than before, hit him harder than the bullet that took his second life. 

_ He is a cardinal, after all. Cardinals are known to abandon their young.  _

The sorrow filled tears he had refused to let out careened down his face, the hot anger he had felt freezing from the pure grief that filled his heart. Thomas would have screamed till the heavens shook, until god himself came down to see what was causing such a disturbance. All Tommy could do was lay there, trapped as weak, quiet sobs wracked his body.  _ He didn’t have it in him to feel anything else.  _

Tommy wasn’t warm anymore. 

When he woke up the next morning in the crater, it wasn’t green, or even brown eyes that met his, but a soft blue. 

_ Innocence. After everything, the boy is still innocent. It was still there, just barley.  _

_ He is a mockingbird after all.  _

Tommyinnit is 16, when he is cast out of his own country. The crater that was once a country is filled, and built anew. He will never get to see his brother’s country be something greater, because he is thrown out, cast aside, like a baby bird with a broken wing,  _ abandoned,  _

Exiled. 

Thomas wouldn’t have set fire to a house. Wouldn’t have let it burn either.  _ Thomas wouldn’t have been exiled.  _ Tommy, however, set George’s house on fire. He hadn’t meant to destroy the  _ entire  _ thing, he didn’t even meant to let it burn.  _ He was sorry. He didn’t mean to let Wilbur die either-  _

He won’t forget Wilbur. 

_ Phil? Who’s that? Never heard the name before.  _

He’ll never forget the soft, ice blue eyes that looked at him hardened with enough rage to melt the ice of said blue, before sealing his fate. Thrown out of his own country. Alone. 

Again. 

His sad excuse for a shack is missing half a roof. It’s raining. Pouring even. The sky is grey, and darkens more with every clap of thunder. His impersonation of a roof is leaking, water slowly dripping from the wood and landing in fat droplets on his head. Tommy decides that he hates rain. At this moment, Theseus would’ve curled up, and cried. He would’ve wrapped his wings around himself, trying his hardest to stay alive. Theseus would be afraid. 

_ Theseus would’ve been in this mess a lot sooner.  _

_ Thomas wouldn’t be here at all.  _

Tommy simply sits. Silent and numb.  _ Cold. _ He doesn’t scream, doesn’t run, doesn’t cry, it’s as if- 

Wait. 

That’s not right. Tommyinnit doesn’t just  _ sit  _ and be quiet. He doesn’t act as though he has nothing left, nothing to live for. As if he’s already dead. Tommyinnit  _ lives, and he lives for himself.  _ Tommyinnit is happy, he has friends, a family,  _ a country.  _

This isn’t Tommyinnit. 

Not-Tommy isn’t lonely in exile. Not at all. In fact, he doesn’t feel  _ anything at all.  _ He wants to, but he just...doesn’t have the energy. Too busy trying to survive. He doesn’t talk to himself, he doesn’t want to be silent…..but what’s the point in talking when there’s no one to hear? 

_ Did you ever really make a sound if there’s no one to hear?  _

_ Did you ever really exist, if there was no one to remember- no- if there was no one to hear?  _

_ People will remember Tommy. Right?  _

He won’t forget them. Not Wilbur, not Tubbo, not Ranboo, 

Not Dream. 

Dream had been the one to get upset over the fire. He’d been the one to barge into Tubbo’s house, threatening him and demanding he be punished. Dream had been the one to escort him into exile. Dream had been the one to attack L’manburg.  _ Dream drove Wilbur into madness.  _

Now he was in this stupid shack. With half a roof. In the rain. What a funny trick for god to play on him. 

For two weeks, Not-Tommy gathered wood, then stone, then iron.  _ He had stacks upon stacks of wood, much more than he would ever need. He wasn’t sure why.  _ On his own, he had made iron tools and iron armor. Although he couldn’t remember doing it, his memory was hazy, he had been determined. A sliver of Tommy, the real Tommy, had shown himself. 

When he looked at the progress he had made,  _ by himself,  _ a droplet of emotion fell through the cracks. Something akin to pride. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the crunch of grass blades being flattened. He stood, chest half open, still as a statue.  _ Listening.  _ The grassy plains crunched again, then again, and again, until the grass being flattened were the very blades he was standing next to. 

Someone was here, in his shack,  _ next to him.  _

Slowly, he had opened his eyes, just a sliver, catching only a glance of the man. Tall, armed, and 

_ Green.  _

Green like...like  _ Phil.  _ But, this wasn’t Phil. He knew that….Phil wouldn’t come for him. He left. But the man here, he was green- 

The man didn’t have wings. 

Carefully, Not-Tommy raised his eyes to meet the man’s.  _ Childishly, he hoped against all odds that he would meet kind, caring viridian green.  _ Yet when his eyes met the man’s face, there was 

Nothing. 

A thick, white mask covered his face, with a fading, crudely painted smiley face the only thing to stare back at Not-Tommy. The hood that sheltered the man from the elements was a sickening green. Not-Tommy knew this man, and he knew him well. How could he ever forget? 

Dream. 

On the third week of his exile, he lost all his items. His precious items, albeit iron, that he had worked so hard for. Gone. Reduced to nothing by fiery ash, the ash he had built them from. Forced by Dream to dig his item’s grave, and forced to light the explosion that had sealed their fate. The dynamite that he had lit was powerful enough that his dopey little shack had been heavily damaged. 

His ears had rung for days afterward. 

_ What a funny trick for god to play on him.  _

In exile, he wasn’t allowed to have items. He knew that. It had been ingrained into his head, etched into his skull the moment Dream had arrived. Yet, he found himself collected stacks upon stacks of wood.  _ He wasn’t sure why.  _ The moment he began to collect wood, the moment his fingertips reached for that first log of oak, the moment he defied Dream, 

He became Tommyinnit again. 

_ For a while.  _

Over another week, the logs turn to planks. Dream comes yet again, to taunt him, patronize him even. Tommy isn’t sure at this point. All he knows is that the man causes pain. The man rants and rambles about rules, scouring every inch of Tommy’s half broken shack, just to be sure that he has no possessions. The oak planks stay hidden underground, and Dream is none the wiser. 

_ What a funny trick to play on god.  _

He isn’t sure why he had begun to collect wood until he was standing at the edge of the pillar. 

He must have been miles high, at the very top of the pillar, yet he felt no fear. He relished in the way the light breeze felt against his feathers. Half of his foot was off the pillar, only the heel of it keeping him on the edge. The sky was alive with a brilliant array of color, red and yellow meshing with pink and orange, blending together to create the warmest sunset Tommy had ever seen. Wind pulled the golden hair from his face, and in this moment, he realizes, that while the sky is alive with color, 

So is he. 

Tommyinnit is alive. 

He teeters on the edge, surely a drop from this height would kill him. 

A common trait between Theseus, Thomas and Tommy? 

His balance had never been good. 

A gust of wind hits his back. The heel of his foot slips off the pillar, the world seems to spin, turning his view upside down. 

He slips. 

Fear pierces his heart like a dagger, paralyzing him. 

He cannot, think, move, speak, scream, his limbs feel as though they’ve turned to stone. The weight of his sins pull him faster and faster towards the ground. His wings feel as though they are on fire, from the sheer ferocity of the wind at this speed. By some miracle they haven’t been ripped from his back. 

In this moment, Tommyinnit became Achilles. 

_ Achilles, Achilles, Achilles come down, won’t you get up off, get up off the roof?  _

Yet, as if a gift from the gods, Achilles’ wings begin to move on their own. 

They move with such grace, such focus as if the action has been practiced a thousand times over, that Achilles himself can hardly believe it. Instead of plummeting to his death, his life ending on the ground in a spectacular mess of fear and regret, 

He begins to glide. 

Slowly, his too small wings carry him to safety, softening his fall. 

His useless fucking wing, too small, too ugly, 

They save him. 

The stone that had been placed on his chest, the fear causing him to be still as stone, they leave him, dissipating into the air. It leaves him faster than he slipped, because the feeling of being in the air, of floating- no  _ gliding,  _ is exhilarating. 

He is free, a bird released from it’s cage, shooting through the open gate. 

_ Somewhere in the forest, a mockingbird takes flight for the first time.  _

In this story, Achilles does not die. But the story of Achilles is one of tragedy. Somewhere towards the end of his slow descent, our Achilles is struck by tragedy. 

For our Achilles, with the too small wings of a mockingbird, could only glide from certain heights. He realizes this far too late. His body strikes the ground, not with enough force to kill him, thanks to his now scraped wings. The first part of him to hit the ground are his feet. 

His ankle snaps in half with a sickening crack. 

He doesn’t have it in him to scream anymore

The speed at which he fell, forced him to hit the ground not just once, but propelling him up once more, and falling into the sea. He awakens, hours later, once night has fallen. He is surrounded by ice cold water, heavy and suffocating, the blue of the ocean matching the darkness of the sky. 

In this moment,  _ he feels like Theseus.  _

But he is not Theseus. Not anymore. 

When Dream returns, Achilles is gone. 

What remains is a half broken shack, a crater, a broken, empty chest, and a pillar. Most worrying of all, is the utter silence that has settled over the camp. Sure, Achilles had been much quieter in exile. While Tommy was loud, with enough banter to carry a conversation, in exile he had become….quieter. Recluse even. But never, was he ever completely silent. Even in exile,  _ it just wasn’t in his nature.  _

_ Mockingbirds are loud by nature, and often chirp loudly in rapid succession. The only thing they exist to do is make music for others.  _

Tired, icy blue eyes filled with hopefulness, emerged from a wall of purple. A grin was plastered upon his face, excitement bubbling within. Leather boots became stained with grass with each step he took. He practically bounced across the field, only one thought on his mind, 

_ Let’s go see Tommy!  _

_ However, he wasn’t Tommy anymore, but Achilles.  _

His grin wavered a bit, morphing into a slight frown, as the broken, beaten shack came into view. From a distance away, it didn’t look  _ too  _ bad. Sure, the shack was small, looked as if half the roof was falling off, and was covered in dirt and grime. His thoughts of worry were quelled, as he recalled that his best friend had never been particularly good at building. The further he walked, the bumpier the terrain became, bits of charred woods and rock crushed under his boots. The ground seemed to give way under him, face first into dirt. 

A crater. 

There were several large craters surrounding him and the shack, he realized as he pulled himself up onto his hands and knees. Smaller ones were further out in the verdant plains of exile. The place looked more like a bomb testing site the more he allowed his eyes to wander. Finally, he stood up, eyes finally settling on the shack. 

Up close, it was a horrid sight. 

With the condition it was in, you could hardly call it a shack. The roof thought to be falling off, wasn’t even a full roof, but lopsided logs unevenly placed, covering only half of the “shack.” The walls were heavily dented, long scratches painting its sides. It looked as if a bear had attacked it, or as if someone had taken a sword to it, slowly dragging it across the walls. Bits of sharp metal stuck out from it, with chunks of wood missing here and there. 

It was a disaster site. 

A look of horror crossed his face as he stood, alone, in front of the most horrific scene he had ever witnessed. The smell of copper assaulted his lungs, red filling his vision. If he thought the outside of the shack was sickening, the inside was vomit-inducing. Large stains of red covered the walls, flaky and dry. The bed, if you could even call it that, was wooden planks laid flat in the grass with bushels of hay for a mattress. The planks themselves were splintered and rotting, rusty nails poking out every so often. Not to mention the hay was  _ stained  _ with red. 

He collapsed onto the ground, wrenching just outside the shack. He gasped, fists tight around clumps of grass and dirt. His eyes were scrunched shut, as his mind filled with panic. Admits the hurricane that was his brain, the eye of the storm contained only one thought. 

_ Where was Tommy?  _

Shakily, he got to his feet, knees wobbling. He stumbled past the shack, hands feeling along the wall. With his torso, half bent, he kept his eyes trained on the ground, careful not to catch a glimpse of the hellhole he’d just left. With the grace of a newborn deer, he began to make his way through the field. He lifted his head, eyes wide and unseeing, yet still searching for his best friend. 

_ Yet, Achilles had left just hours before.  _

Pale and drenched in sweat, his platinum blond hair sticking to his forehead, undisturbed by the wind. His eyes, blurred and unfocused, settled on something tall and brown. 

A pillar. 

Tall enough to reach fatal heights. 

He swallowed, ice blue eyes frozen with realization. He sucked in a breath, skin turning to ice. As he stood, limbs poisoned with shock, the world seemed to slow. Time came to a standstill. 

_ Achilles, Achilles, Achilles come down won’t you get up off, get up off the roof.  _

_ You’re scaring us, and all of us, some of us love you  _

_ Achilles, it’s not much but there’s proof.  _

He was told that the punishment he doled out, exile, was justice. 

_ But the consequences of such punishment could not be foreseen, for justice is blind.  _

Patroclus fell to his knees. 

Pain filled his chest, as if a firework had pierced his heart yet again. 

His breath seemed to catch in his throat, air having to claw its way into his lungs. He struggled for breath. 

He coughed, sickly, as fluid filled his lungs. He wasn’t sure what it was, only that it stained his hands. 

His heart began to beat faster, slow, than beat faster again, as if undecided. His heart followed no pattern. 

Fast, slow, slow, slow, fast again, slow. 

Then not at all. 

_ In this story, Achilles does not die.  _

_ But Patroclus does.  _

_ Stress cardiomyopathy, or broken heart syndrome, is a temporary heart condition stressful situations and extreme emotions. Most recover within a few weeks.  _

_ Though in some cases, it can be fatal.  _

Achilles pried his eyes open, cold encompassing him. The salt of the ocean burned his eyes, causing his vision to go blurred. He sucked in a breath, only succeeding in filling his lungs with water, shrinking the already short timer on his life down to a mere minute. He needed to reach the surface.  _ He needed air.  _ His head was too clouded, too frozen to panic. Instead, primal instinct seemed to take over, screaming at him to move, to break the surface, _ to breath.  _ His limbs proved to be useless, numb and heavy beneath him. His wings, however small they may be, still served as a weight, plunging him deeper into the ocean. Time seemed to slow, as he dragged his arms above himself, limbs reaching towards the light of the stars. He mustered up any energy left from the fire that burned within him, and kicked, propelling himself upward. 

Again. 

Kick. 

Again. 

Kick. 

He let his arms spread apart, everything in him scream to shove his arms out, to push against the water,  _ to escape.  _

Again, push, kick. 

Again, push, kick, 

Again- 

_ Air.  _

He gasped, head breaking the surface, too much air filling his lungs, causing him to splutter and cough. Water expelling from his lungs, burning his throat. Water clung to his lashes, making it hard to open them. 

_ Achilles was alive.  _

He lay on the shore, sand becoming wet and clinging to his hair, sticking to his palms and stinging the little cuts on his fingers, for some time. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but he knew it was long enough for the nightfall to pass into a sunrise. He rose, still damp and limbs weak and trembling. Footsteps loud under crunching grass, he began to limp across the plains, ankle screaming in pain. His vision cleared, allowing him but a moment of focus, and in that moment, 

_ He saw him.  _

Blond hair, much paler this his own of golden color, peaked out from uneven blades of grass. 

He sped up, heart pounding, ankle forgotten. His already injured ankle rolled, sending him careening into the dirt, mere inches away from  _ him.  _

_ Face pale and blue, eyes wide, glassy, doll like even.  _

_ While his mind was clouded, thoughts struggling to form, he could still recognize that face anywhere.  _

_ Tubbo.  _

He touched a hand to his face, searching for signs, any signs of life. 

_ But the body of Patroclus no longer held life.  _

Theseus, would not have been here at all. Thomas, would have screamed, till the gods themselves knew his name. Tommy, would have lashed out, hot tears of grief spilling down his face, anger only a front for what he truly felt. Not-Tommy would have felt nothing at all, no energy left to do so. And Achilles? 

He roared. 

It wasn’t a scream of anguish that left his lips, but a cry of anger. One filled with vitriol. Venom filled tears dripped from eyes, words of hate filling his mind. Anger filled him, lava seeming to flow beneath his skin. Promises of destruction, revenge, and curses for the gods left his lips, only fueling the burning pain within. Though he had threatened just about every god in existence, he knew only one god was responsible for this. One that walked the Earth. 

Dream. 

_ He had to be punished.  _

_ So what if it killed him?  _

He was the cause of this, after all. 

_ Achilles, Achilles, Achilles come down, won’t you get up off, get up off the roof?  _

_ You crazy assed cosmonaut, remember your virtue, redemption lies plainly in truth.  _

No force, supernatural or otherwise, could sate the rage of Achilles.

_ Somewhere in the forest, a mockingbird sang for the first time.  _

_ Innocence. Nearly spent, yet still the mockingbird is innocent.  _

Achilles is 16 and a half when he challenges god himself to a duel. He receives a compass, with nothing but a smiley face as a signature. He stands beneath a mountain, one that towers into the sky, clouds hiding its peak. He tries to crane his neck, trying to gauge just how long it’d take to climb, but the sun is blinding, and all he can do is squint. The sun was unusually scorching hot against his skin, making his wings feel as though they could melt. With a sword sharper than a dragon's claw fastened tightly to his side, and a shield built to withstand a bolt from Zeus himself, he began to climb. 

Rough palms met even rougher rock, jagged cliffs guiding him to the top. To his surprise, it was not a sharp peak at the top of the mountain, but a flat, dangerously high cliff. In the distance, a figure. Green and masked, the man stood, confidence clear in his posture. It was there, at the top of the mountain, they stood, eyes locked, waiting. Neither one of them moved. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, making it almost impossible for him to stay still. His limbs itched to move, hands yearning for the weight of a sword in his hand. 

In the blink of an eye, the harsh glare of the sun was dulled by the glint of a netherite axe filling his vision. The axe crashed into his shield, second away from piercing his head. Dream’s axe ricocheted off the shield, denting it, the knockback powerful enough to send him flying back a few steps. 

His breath caught in his throat, in his haste to escape the menace that called himself god, he’d backed up too far. His left foot flew back, yet landed on nothing but air. He was sure this would be the end of him, he’d fall from this cliff, and it would all be over. Yet, his balance did not fail him, thanks to the gentle hold of his wings, keeping him in the air for the few seconds he needed to regain his balance. 

Dream was a mere inches away now, axe held above his head, another swing sure to follow. 

In a moment of panic, he rushed forward, shield in hand, knocking Dream back a few feet. Still his axe came down, with much less force than intended. It grazed his wing, pulling off a handful of feathers with it. Trading his shield for a sword, eyes blinded in both rage and determination, he rushed Dream once again. His sword pierced the wood of Dream’s shield, leaving a trail of splinters in its wake. He tugged on the sword, preparing for another swing, but  _ the sword wouldn’t budge.  _ Realizing this, Dream shoved his shield forward, sending Achilles flying backwards once again, this time hitting the ground. His now empty hands fumbled through his belt, finally closing around a hot, round object. 

Dream rushed forward again, shield forgotten and tossed to the side, axe in hand. Dream towered over him from his spot on the ground, axe casting a shadow over his face. Dream swung- 

A ball of fire erupted between them. 

Yet, instead of Dream being launched far away from him, he was sent flying backward through the air. Time seemed to freeze for just a moment, as he flew through the air, back arched from being propelled backwards, limbs flailing. The sun was almost blinding, and scorching hot, making his back feel as though it was  _ burning.  _ The scent of smoke hit his nose. 

_ His wings were burning.  _

In the second it took for the impact of the fireball to hit him, Achilles’ wings had caught the tips of the flames, engulfing his wings in fire. He soared through the air, reaching just past the edge of the cliff,  _ when he began to drop.  _ The scene looked biblical, almost, an angel falling from the heavens.  _ Yet, he was no angel.  _ In this moment, having fallen from a mountain that seemed to reach the heavens, wings burning into charred ash that fell from his back, 

Achilles became Icarus. 

_ Today, of all days, see,  _

_ How, the most dangerous thing is to love.  _

Once more, frigid cold engulfed him, filling his lungs and tugging his hair in directions he couldn’t name. Salt burned his eyes, the lack of air burning his lungs. Limbs going numb and limp once more, the weight of the entire ocean seeming to be pressed upon his chest. 

_ See, how, you will heal and you’ll rise above.  _

Achilles may have risen from the ocean, but Icarus did not. 

_ The wings of a mockingbird, innocence. Yet, the mockingbird was no longer a mockingbird, wings nothing but ash in the wind. Burnt and melted like wax.  _

_ His innocence, nothing but ash in the wind.  _

In this story, Achilles does not die, but Icarus does. 

It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. 

In the cold of the ocean, in his final few moments of life, a memory came to him. One of the pitiful shack, one of Not-Tommy, one of  _ him.  _ The guilt, he supposed, from his failure, must’ve triggered it. 

_ Achilles, Achilles, Achilles jump now you are absent of cause or excuse. So self-indulgent, and self-reverential, no audience could ever want you.  _

One last pitiful gasp for air escaped him, though it proved futile. His vision, already spotty, went black for the last time. Somewhere, in a forest far from the ocean, a mockingbird took its last breath. 

_ God may judge you, but his sins far outweigh your own.  _

_ It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.  _

And in the very end, as his heart truly beat for the last time, the universe said I love you, as misfortune loves orphans, and as tragedy loves you. 

Your fall was not an accident, you were chosen for the damned. 


End file.
